I searched all night. Sam is still MIA, gone as if she never existed. It’s a talent, truly, her ability to simply drop out of life. I’d like to say this is something new or surprising. But it isn’t. My sister lives in a world in which she is the sun, and everyone around her is simply orbiting. She often leaves me to either clean up her messes or take the blame.

I’ve been covering for her for as long as I can remember. Even when we were kids, my parents simply accepted it as fact that I’d be the prevailing head and keep her out of mischief. It’s a hard habit to shake.

Now, I’m pacing my sunny kitchen, my fingers cold and clammy, my stomach so sour even the bright, fluffy lemon scones I made an hour ago in a sad attempt to ease my agitation don’t tempt me. And I know they’ll be delicious.

But no, instead of eating, I clutch my phone, willing myself not to dial but doing it anyway. I have always had this need to make my parents—especially my mama—happy, make them proud to have me as their daughter. It isn’t logical as much as a bone-deep compulsion. I hate disappointing her.

A cold sweat breaks out along my back as the call rings through.

Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up. Don’t pick—

“Hello, dear.” My mother is far too cheery this early in the morning. “I was just thinking about you.”

“That is not the comfort you believe it to be, Mama.”

Slightly offended amusement lilts through her voice. “My thinking about you isn’t comforting?”

“No. Because I immediately wonder if it’s about something bad.”

“You are a horrible pessimist, darling. I assure you it is always good things.”

Snorting, I pace the length of my kitchen. “I’m pragmatic, not pessimistic.”

“Really,” Mama drawls. “And what makes you believe that? In your professional opinion?”

She is the only person who can manage to tease me yet make me feel a little bit lighter in my soul while doing so. I smile despite my disquiet. “Because my dire predictions almost always come true. I’m merely planning ahead of time.” At that, all my happy fades.

Clearing my throat, I lean against the counter and dive in. “Mama, have you heard from Sam today?”

“No, baby. I haven’t heard from Samantha for over a week.” She laughs lightly. “Which is just about regular for her. Why?”

Because I want to strangle her with my bare hands, but I need her here to get a good grip on her neck. “No reason. Just . . . sister stuff.” I clear my throat again. “Mama, I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel lunch today. I . . . ah . . . one of my work colleagues is in a tight spot and has no one else to help her out.”

It is the worst of excuses, and even saying the words makes me cringe deep within myself.